Rougarou Stories

Wet. Why’d it all feel wet? Not just humid or sticky or hot—wet. Drenched through. Like the air had been wrung out and poured over me again and again. I must’ve dozed. Hard to stay awake when you’re blindfolded and hanging by your arms, sucked at by mosquitoes for so long the sting had melted into my pulse. My arms didn’t carry all of me; he’d tied me good by the legs too. Behind me, pulled up and spread, sweating like th...